The Adventure of the Black Vial
by Lorca the Great
Summary: A new mystery arises for master sleuth Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his colleague, Dr. John Watson. A strange murder with a more intriguing weapon lead the two into adventure. The case becomes a classic example of the struggle between head and heart as the mystery unfolds and as danger lurks and strikes. Holmes/Watson slash. Book canon.


Author's Note: This story actually stemmed from a dream that I had. Let's just say it was a grand adventure of a dream, and it had to be written. This is actually the first book canon I have written for Sherlock Holmes and I tried to stick more towards the style of writing of Doyle, with my own personal twist. Well, I hope you enjoy!

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The Adventure of the Black Vial

As I lay there on the icy, cracked and acid stained concrete, while a noxious formula pulsed its way up my arm and slowly towards my heart with every beat, all I could think of was my companion. Sherlock Holmes was never far from my side, even when I thought he was. This was one of those particular instances where I genuinely did want him two steps around the corner and snooping in on my doings.

As it was, he had not followed me. It had been one of those rare cases where his deductions had led him astray. He would loath of this to be written, but I do believe it is a story that must be told in whole and from the beginning.

It was a chilly morning in the very early winter when I woke for my usual breakfast, finding Homes already tucked into his with the newspaper open and covering his visage. As was usual, he made no outward display of recognition when I sat and took up a cup of coffee.

"Are you hoping for a grand case this early in the morning, Holmes?" I asked my flat mate across the breakfast table once I too had begun my cold breakfast left by our dear landlady.

In response, he turned over a page of the newspaper in annoyance. "Nothing but petty theft. There was a break in Dartford, silver gone. Our good friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard seems to be taking care of it. He will not call upon my services for this one." Holmes dropped one side of the paper in favor of his coffee cup and I finally got a glimpse of him. Same old long face, sharp cheek bones, and immaculate collar. His worry lines seemed deeper this morning than usual and I brought it to his attention. "I am without a case, my dear Watson. Why else would I be worried?"

I gave a moment of thought before responding. "Most men would be worried if they were _on_ a case." Then again, Holmes wasn't just-

"I'm not just any man. My faults are few, but one is most apparent when I am without a task to keep my mind working."

"Yes, so you have told me," I replied. Holmes threw down the paper in frustration and stood to pace the room. "Are you hoping for a client to come to our door, or will you go out into the city to search for trouble?"

Holmes made his way to the mantle of the fireplace where he kept his clay pipe and began filling it from his tobacco supply in the slipper. "By the sound of a carriage stopping just outside our door, I believe I will not have to move further than my chair." He lit his pipe and sat just as a quick knock was heard at the door. "Will you get that, friend Watson? I believe he will be most frantic, so do put on a cheerful demeanor."

With a sigh I stood and did as he bid, finding a rather wide-eyed young man in yesterday's clothes, his collar askew and with a tattered bag in hand. I beckoned him in and bid him sit, handing him a glad of brandy to settle his nerves.

Holmes sat with long legs crossed, fingers in a steeple below his nose. "Now, good sir, pray tell us how you came to our front door when you have walked so far, not stopping to get a cabbie until just a few blocks away? Seems you want to be seen as someone who has money enough to ask for my services. I can tell by the state of your gloves that they were not originally yours and neither have they had the best treatment. This leads me to assume that you are not of the same class as your father, for one reason or another, probably gambling. Seems you have one thing in common with my colleague, but then again, what might you have in that satchel? I seem to smell antiseptic. Would you care to tell your tale?"

The young man simply stared at Holmes for a good while, sucking down the brandy like a thirsty fish. "I've 'eard of your mind, Mr. Holmes, but I ne'er believed it. M' name's Gregerson. Tom Gregerson. It is true, I do gamble, but it was no' the gambling that brought me down t' this filth. I've been set up, y' see. 'Bout three months ago, I ventured down to my pa's cellar for a bit of coin – not much, just enough for the nigh' – an' I foun' tha' half our savin's were missin'! I'm no sleepwalker, so I'm not goin' an' takin' the coin to go sleep gamble, if that be on your mind. Tha' was what my pa accused me of, an' kicked me out. I've been livin' in an ol' farmhouse since then, but las' night, I seen something I wish I never seen. Tha' is th' reason I come to you, Mr. Holmes.

"There were two of 'em. Dark from soot an' dirt, but wha' they carried was as clean as anythin' can be. They ha' someone tied up, hog tied I reckoned, with a gag so he couldn' make noise. I was dead wit' fear, so I don' remember all they said. Somethin' about payin' up for supplies. Next thin' I know, the man is writhin' on the ground, turnin' an awful shade of purple, makin' chockin' noises past the gag. Well, they dragged th' body away and I stayed put until dawn. When I climb'd down, I found this."

The young man carefully pulled an object out of his sack and gingerly handed it to Holmes. He observed it as closely as only he could, pulling out his magnifying glass. After a few long moments, he looked up to Mr. Gregerson. "Perhaps this is more of the area of my colleague. Watson?" He handed me the object, one who's like I had held countless times before.

It was a glass syringe, with metal fixtures and a cork on the tip of the needle. It was empty, but the vial had been filled with a liquid and then emptied. "It is a large needle, usually for antibiotics, but those liquids are rarely colored and this held something that looks blue."

"It was a very deep blue, in fact. Almost black," Holmes interjected. "Very little of it is left I am afraid, not enough to get a proper sample to test with. It has been used within the past twenty four hours, no sooner than twelve hours ago. The solution was administered quickly – see how the plunger caught on the glass and left a residue? Mr. Gregerson, from your story, I can assume that the man was either killed for or _by _the contents of this syringe." He stood with a flourish, sucking on his pipe. "Take me to this farmhouse; I would care to see the scene for myself. Come along, Watson, unless your practice has you caught up."

Soon, the three of us were in a carriage rumbling out of London and into the countryside. On the few hour ride out of London, Holmes had our client explain the details once again of the strange case.

We arrived at the barn and Holmes immediately went to work. He stooped in the dirt, searching for clues only he could discern in the mud. I followed, taking in the whole scene. Holmes scuttled along to the barn door, searching its rotting wood for possible clues with his magnifying glass in hand.

I knew not to bother Holmes during these intense moments of searching. I knew to wait until he asked me for my opinion on the matter. I also knew that he always asked me, so I was always sure to be vigilant in my own searching and deducing. He valued my opinion and thoughts on our cases, which is rather something when I see how he treats the officers of Scotland Yard.

"Well, my dear Watson. What can you tell me about this?" On cue, Holmes stood and stared intently, waiting for my reply.

"There was a scuffle, but no blood was drawn, leading me to believe that the man killed either did not put up a fight or was bound and could not move, as our client stated. It also suggests that the victim was not killed with a gun or a knife. That takes us back to the empty syringe that our client presented to us."

"Good, Watson, good!" Holmes stooped down where he stood and stared at the packed dirt strewn with old hay. "The syringe was the instrument of murder. Now we come to the reason behind the killing of this man. This fish scale appears to have dislodged from the man's boot, meaning he came from the docks, though it is rather old by the smell, so he could have been there a number of days ago. Let us set that aside for now and find the body, for it is not far." In a blink, he was out the door, and I was forced to follow at my slower, limping pace.

The man was half submerged in a nearby stream, his feet sticking up into the foliage, ankles still bound. I arrived with Holmes already scuttling all around, magnifying glass flashing in the afternoon sun. I examined the man and found his face still purple. I found that odd since a man's face tended to sheet to white in death. Perhaps, I thought, the poison colored the blood and thus the skin.

"Ah ha!" My friend exclaimed in glee, stooping over the man's boot. He picked something from them, sniffed, and grinned. "Watson, I do believe we need to take a stroll around town. There will be a weaver in grave peril. Tell our client to find a safer place to lodge. On second thought, perhaps not, for he may lead us to another intriguing case in the future!"

With that, we were back in the cabbie heading back to London, leaving our client behind. We stopped at many a weaver's shop, Holmes asking what kind of sheep they got their supply of wool from. After the fourth shop, I began to despair that we would ever find what Holmes was searching for. It was getting well into the night when we pulled up to a shop with a guttering lamp in the window. It had been running low on oil and, as was custom for shops, would have been blown out at the time the shop closed. Our suspicions high, we entered the dark shop as quietly as we could.

To our dismay, the woman who we had been searching for already lay dead behind the counter, showing the same signs of agony that the previous corpse had. After a quick exam, I discovered that it had been the same poison administered to the first man. Holmes uncurled her stiffened fist and pulled a particularly intriguing scrap of rough spun wool from it.

Upon closer examination, there were lines of writing painted upon it in black. "Encoded, obviously," Holmes snatched the cloth into his pocket. "I am off to the docks."

"Should you not look around here for more material? I feel like one scale from a fish is not enough to chase down to the docks." Holmes seemed to be hot on a trail, but I also had some sense in me. He seemed so caught up in his mind that he was skipping the larger picture.

Holmes shook his head, "No need. I have all I require. Dear Watson, do get yourself to supper and bed. I require the utmost disguise in tonight's excursion." With that, he was out of the shop. For a brief moment, I wished he would have stayed. Having his company during one of these exciting cases was always a joy, and I felt so alone when he departed my side. I sighed, stiffly standing from crouching next to the woman.

While waiting for the police to arrive after I sent for them, I searched through the woman's desk. I took out the shop's transaction registry and flipped to the latest page, knowing it was a good place to start and mentally noting that it was what Holmes would approve of, if he took long enough to think it over. Indeed, she had been purchasing the wool that Holmes had been asking for. There were a number of purchases near the end of the record with only numbers of items and addresses of purchase. Feeling a great need for supper and bed, as Holmes had suggested, I took the cabbie back to 221B and did just that.

Holmes had still not returned from his excursion when I woke, so I broke my fast alone. It was a pretty normal occurrence while he was on a case, but it never failed to disappoint me. I had come to cherish the time I spent with my good friend. Especially after his supposed death and the death of my dear Mary, I had felt so alone eating by myself. After his return, I had realized how much I loved his company, even if he was silent and brooding in front of the fire. It was a comfort to have him near, after I had been through so much loss. As it was, I was alone and all I could do was help solve the case so I could sit with him again.

I spent that morning traveling from address to address that the purchase record had written. I had jotted them down in my notebook earlier, so I did not have to carry the large and burdensome tome with me on my outing. There were a few spinning wheel parts purchased here, a staining agent there. It was midafternoon by the time I reached the end of the list. The cabbie stopped before a rather impressively large and dull brick building. Just as I was getting out, a man from across the otherwise empty street hailed the driver, and soon they were off, the horse's trotting hooves disappearing around the dark alley.

I entered the warehouse warily, my hand on my pistol tucked into the back of my trousers. If going out on adventures with Holmes taught me anything, it was to be prepared for everything. I heard footsteps echoing around the tall stacks of wooden crates as I crept around wooden boxes strewn about the floor. A man appeared around the far crate, carrying a large box that clinked with each step. I saw his muscled arms and I wished very much to have Holmes by my side just then, with his expertise in the art of boxing.

"You here to pick up? What is the name?" The man sounded pleasant enough as he set the box down atop another. He took a small notepad out and swept it open. Only then did he look up and really see my face. There was a glimmer of recognition in his eye, and he grinned. "Oh, you are here for _that_, eh? Sorry, none left to sell unless you are willing to pay, dear colleague of Mr. Holmes."

"You sell the poison? What is it made from?" I did not falter when he recognized me, but I kept my hand firmly on the handle of my pistol. He circled closer to me, weaving between the boxes. In this setting, with my leg as it was, I was at a very large disadvantage as it took me fairly more concentration to step carefully around the boxes. It would not do to step wrong on my bad leg when danger loomed so close. Again, I wished for Holmes.

"Like I would know, I just receive and distribute it. Just the middle man, you see. I see to that the supply gets to who it needs to. I also deal with certain… snags in the way." He moved so suddenly that I was barely able to pull my pistol out before a sharp point entered my wrist, just before I squeezed the trigger. Startled by the pain, I dropped my gun and pulled the black vial from my arm. I noticed distractedly that it left a small black dot behind, just under the thin skin of my wrist. I moved with all my military training then, using the weapon I had at hand. I twisted around, grasping the man and tweaking him so he collapsed on one knee. I jabbed the needle deep into his shoulder and squeezed the substance in, but before I was able to drain it even half way, my hand cramped painfully and I was forced to let go, the man dropping from my grasp. I pulled the syringe from him as he fell, hitting the cold floor with a dead weight.

I reeled with a sudden vertigo, stumbling backwards over a box, which crashed to the floor and split open. A thousand empty syringes spilled out, and suddenly I was on my knees amongst them. My head swam with dizziness and strange out of place thoughts. Holmes would have caught me as I fell, and then went on to search the dying man for clues, or extract information from him in his dying breath. But, I remembered, he was not here.

The man breathed like every pull would be the death of him. I saw him grin, his cheeks already purpling with poison. "One drop is enough," the man choked before all I could see were the whites of his eyes. A pang of loss sang through my chest. If I were to die anywhere, I thought, it would be in the presence of Holmes. He would have done anything to save me, as I would him. My whole body contracted then, and all I knew in that brief moment was a wave of pain, and I woke with my back to the ground.

I lay there, on the cold cement, with empty syringes and broken glass strewn about. Warmth on my back told me that I had crushed some of the instruments in my fall and the glass had become embedded in my flesh. That pain was nothing compared to the searing, scorching agony arching up my arm slowly. I would have cried out, called for Holmes who was nowhere near, but my chest seemed paralyzed. My limbs refused to work properly, so I merely twitched on the ground, not uttering a sound save a few shallow breaths.

I knew not how long I lay there. It had been long enough for the blood on my back to grow cold and sticky. At least, my medical mind told me, I was no longer bleeding. If I were to die, it would not be from blood loss. I convulsed momentarily at periodic intervals, a time when the pain was most intense. There appeared to be a dark line making its way up my forearm from the stab of the needle. I watched it slowly creep up to my elbow, working its way upwards and disappearing under my rolled sleeve. It felt like hours before it reached that point. There was no way to tell the time in this cavern of a warehouse, where only a few lanterns flickered on the far wall. I thought of Holmes often in that dazed state of pain, wanting so to be with him in my dying moments. He was all that mattered. I could do without medicine, I could do without cases, and I could even do without gambling, but Holmes? Well, I was dying without him.

I lost my sense of time then. The world swam and I felt I was drowning in it. The thoughts of regret swelled in my mind. If only I had gotten closer to Holmes. If only I had dared to touch him. Funny, how I would think of him in my dying moments and not my dear departed wife. I never would be able to tell Holmes just how I felt, or get to know a more intimate side of him. Well, to be honest I had no idea if that intimate side existed. I hoped for his sake that it did not, for losing me would be just that much harder if he felt the same longing towards me as I did him.

I closed my eyes to a bright light that seemed to come from a distant cavern opening. Yelled words were muddled and made no sense to my mind. Then, hot hands were upon my face, too hot to be a normal man, I felt. In a brief moment of lucidness in all that swimming madness, I recognized the sharp cheekbones, the long fingers holding my wrist and looking at my arm. My chest sang once more, though not from loneliness. His voice was muffled to my ears, as though he was talking through a windstorm and I had my earmuffs secured tightly. I looked to the floor beside where he crouched and saw his pipe discarded, the still red embers strewn amongst the glass. I was reaching for it when another spasm of pain overtook me. When I came to, I felt a suffocating grip about my person and my nose was crushed against a jacket that smelled of tobacco and a chemical laboratory; a smell that was so completely Holmes.

That knowledge that Holmes was so close suddenly made the world make just enough sense for my mind to work enough to get my message across. When I had reached for Holmes' pipe, I had taken up the not quite empty syringe by mistake. I must have been holding it when I collapsed and just now retrieved it. I raised this and tried to turn my associate's attention towards it.

To my dismay, he did not release me from his awkward, tight embrace. I should not be so discreet in my desire for Holmes. I had reveled in the small moments of closeness to Holmes in the past, though the occurrences were a rarity. I cherished those moments when we touched, always longing to be just a bit closer, just a little bit more. This was not entirely how I had imagined we would progress to embracing.

He was muttering somewhat incoherently, though I did catch something about him being "lost without his Boswell." Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered him saying a similar line. I gathered the last of my strength, trying to fend off yet another seizing fit, and tried to form words with lips that seemed not my own.

"H- H… Ho- lmes-" I choked, beads of sweat wetting my temples. "A… ant- dote. An… ido-" My vision swam as my companion released me from his grip just enough to stare me in the eye. In all my years being a doctor in the war, treating men fighting for their lives and their very souls, I had never seen eyes filled with such a desperate fear. I fought of another wave of agony as I tried to raise my arm, only to find I was unable to control my muscles. I glanced down, hoping Holmes would follow my gaze to the syringe in my weak grasp. If he had, I knew not. I was lost to a spasm, this one worse than the ones previously.

When I came to, I was again being clutched tightly to my dearest friend's breast, his nose buried in my shoulder. I could have laughed then. It had occurred to me many a time that I would so wish for this very position to be taken up by him. I would dream of his embrace, though never like this. I wished so much to return the embrace, to bury my hands in his hair. I have always been a man of very little need, but when I do desire something, I pursue it to an end. My only qualm with pursuing Holmes was I had no indication that he would be even interested in a closer friendship, let alone a more intimate one. So, I had been forced thus far to relish even the smallest of touch with him. Had I not been dying, I would have noticed my desire rekindling, but as it was, I could only passively be held.

I made a second attempt at speaking, my medical training overcoming that out of place desire. "H… Hol- mes." My voice was hoarse and came out in a ragged breath. Those grey eyes, always filled with such mystery, snapped to mine. His lips moved, but I heard nothing. "H- hand." I glanced at the syringe again, now beginning to roll out of my dead grasp. It was snatched up immediately, a fire burning in my companion's expression. Another spasm racked my body, and I fell into darkness.

It was by no means a peaceful state, as I was constantly drifting in and out of consciousness. I never opened my eyes; for there was brightness outside that I could not bear to stand. Often, I felt a cool hand atop my brow or my cheek, but I was too weak to respond.

When I finally fully woke, the pain had numbed to a tolerable ache. I took a mental note of my injuries, not willing to move or open my eyes just yet. My back was sore, but a pressure around my chest told me that the shards of glass had been removed and the damage bandaged. The ache was still in my arm, but dull.

I chanced opening my eyes then, and found a pleasantly dim light shimmering against very familiar walls. My pistol lay atop my dresser to the side of my bed where I lay, and just beside that sat-

"Holmes." I croaked the name as I saw the man staring down at me from his seat in a chair just to my left. His gaze was shadowed by the candle light, but I knew he was staring intently into my eyes.

"Watson," he returned, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly. It sounded more like a sigh of deep relief. "After you stopped seizing, I had begun to think the worst."

"You got my meaning, then?" I alluded to the grunting and motioning of a desperate dying man.

"Oh, the 'Holmes,' 'Holmes,' 'antidote, antidote,' 'Holmes,' 'hand'?" His humor was so strained that it was painful to hear. "Yes, I understood, my dear fellow. Had I not, you would not be lying awake at this moment."

I cleared my throat. It scratched as though I had been using my voice for hours. Or screaming. "I knew you would find the antidote. It was by chance that I had that syringe in my grasp." I sighed and squeezed my eyes shut. I felt a cool hand press to my forehead, and I melted into that slight touch. I mourned it when it departed. I sighed and opened my eyes once more. "So, how goes the case? Did you find any leads in the fish market or with the encoded note?"

"I have abandoned the case for the moment. There were more pressing matters to tend to. I happened to found this vial clutched in your hand that you were so desperate to give and I was forced to experiment on it right away. A rather intriguing substance. Almost impossible to find a cure, but nothing is impossible for me. So no, the case is not solved, but a portion of it is squared away."

"As I would expect, Holmes. Obsessed to a fault over the minor details."

He seemed taken aback by my statement, almost hurt. It was more expression than I had seen in him, save his performances in costume while in disguise. Or that fear I saw when he held me in the warehouse. "My dear Watson, you are by no means a minor detail. Certainly you know that."

"It could use a little reminding once in a while."

"Do I not constantly ask for your opinion and often consider it in my own deductions?"

"You didn't in this past case, and now look where I am."

Holmes swooped to his feet, something burning behind his eyes. "You are _alive_ because I took your opinion. It was _you_ who saved just enough of the poison dye for me to make an antidote. I would have…" For once it seemed Holmes was at a loss for words. He deflated before my eyes, sinking back into the chair at my bedside as though he were a skeleton in rags.

"Certainly you would have seen the syringe. With your keen eye, it would have been no trouble finding it amongst the others."

"You hold me in too high esteem, my dear Watson. I have told you before; emotion is the bane of the mind. I have, for my whole life, been able to look past those silly things. But right then… had you not given me a task, I…"

I stared intently at my friend's downward turned face. "Holmes…"

"I would have had you die in my arms." The force of the words made his voice waver, even though they were spoken lowly. "If it were any other person, I would have been happy to have a superiorly intriguing cadaver to examine for traces of that strange poison. But…" a bony hand reached over and was placed over mine, chilly to my warm. "I could never do that to you, Watson." His hand gripped mine so tight, I felt my fingertips tingle. "All I could do was hold you and wish you weren't dying. Silly, hugging a dying man."

I stared at his still downturned figure, glancing to the bone-crushing grip he had on my hand. I took a slow breath and gathered my thoughts. "Not silly at all, my dear Holmes," I said softly. I put my free hand over his. "In my time as an army doctor, I have seen many a man holding their dying friends as they pass. It is a normal reaction."

"I don't _understand_." Holmes said sharply, sounding much angrier at himself. "I've never _had_ this problem before."

"What, having a friend? Holmes, don't be so silly about this. I'm-"

I stopped, dumbstruck by the look that my dear friend presented to me. It was somewhat akin to the desperateness he showed in the warehouse, but there was something else lurking on the edges, somewhere deep in those too wet eyes. There was something hidden behind them, a something that was yearning to be known, and yet fear.

And suddenly I knew, for I had felt the same deep in my heart for some time.

"Holmes-" When I reached for him, he tore his hand away and began restlessly pacing my bedroom floor, careful to stay out of my reach.

He ruffled his hair in agitation, eyes darting around my sparse room. "Where is my pipe when I need it?" Holmes seemed to shake as he continued staring around the room, frantically looking and not seeing. I wordlessly took up the old clay pipe that he had laid on my bedside table beside my pistol, offering it to the man who was acting more the caged lion than the master sleuth of London.

When he caught sight of my offering, he froze, glancing from me to the pipe, unsure of what to do. I made sure to be clear in my instruction.

"Sit down, dear friend Holmes. Have a smoke. Let us talk of these emotions."

It seemed we spoke endlessly. As always, Holmes needed as much information as he could possibly get. It seemed that emotions had found their way into his 'need to know' category, unlike astronomy, as I had noted very early on in our time together. He came upon the subject as though it could be as scientific as one of his laboratory experiments. If you put joy with a sense of being fulfilled, you get happiness. If you put loss with sorrow, you get grief. Even after discussing it for quite some time, he still seemed at a loss. I was determined to drag out the proclamation that I knew he burned to say, to experience. I may feel that I am a strong man in many aspects of my life, but this was in no way a place where I could make myself so vulnerable as to spill my heart to my closest companion. This was especially so because he still did not understand what he felt towards me, as I knew exactly how I felt of him. I had felt something akin to it before with my beloved departed Mary, so I knew my feelings when I felt them, and they were strong in this moment.

Holmes hunched over the chair, pipe in hand with his brow crunched up in deep thought. "This makes no logical sense. If, say, I had a pet chicken and I named it, I would be sad if it died, but eating it would make me not hungry, so I would be happy. How can that make a person sad?"

I sighed. "Perhaps you just were not meant to connect these clues together. How about another example? Work through it."

"Alright," Holmes said daringly, "A man is stuck on a very low budget, needs a flat mate. He moves in, and then they start working together. He puts up with this mad man's quirks, doesn't balk at his sudden and inexplicable mood changes, and is perfectly fine with his obviously abnormal ways of viewing anything that does not follow logical lines of thought. He should feel resentment for being in such close proximity to such a superior mind, yet he revels in it. He should block the man out when he lashes out," his hand snatched up my own with viper-like speed, "and yet welcomes it. He gets himself almost killed because the man proved to be not as brilliant as he first appeared due to a miscalculation and a clever decoy. Those are four very negative emotions, Watson. So, tell me, my dear friend, why could you possibly still want to be here with me?"

I was taken aback by the sudden quick and snappy reply. I gently placed his bony hand between my own once more, wishing I wasn't so weak, for I wanted to stand and hold him just as he held me as I lay dying. For now, in my weakened state, pressing his hand was about all I could manage. "Holmes, Holmes. My dear, dear friend, Sherlock Holmes. We have not yet touched on the topic of friendship – of love for our fellows. These cannot be put into a formula, as you are so prone to do." I pressed gentle circles into his palm with my thumb. "This one can take so many forms. It can seem impossible at times, I know. But, you know? I think you understand this one most of all." I carefully pressed a kiss to his wrist and felt my friend stiffen in response, obviously shocked at the intimacy of it. Indeed, I was shocked by myself as well. I smiled then. "What was that about you being 'lost without your Boswell'?"

"I- I was merely afraid that I had lost my constant companion," Holmes said in a rush, but made no move to take his hand away. He merely sat by my bedside, staring at the far wall with a look of his most severe concentration.

"Holmes," I sighed, almost chuckling, "it's love."

He sighed in exasperation. "How many cases have I solved where this _love_ has been at the core? It causes nothing but utter destruction. Brilliant cases, though. People would do just about _anything-_"

"Like being the fastest man ever to create an antidote for an unknown poison?" I shifted my gaze upwards to Holmes and found him staring dumbfounded down at me.

His brow hardened indignantly. "That was simply because-"

"Because you would be lost without me. Think of the man who disguised himself as a beggar for a few coins so his wife would remain happy and well kept, then was imprisoned in disguise for the suspected murder of his own person. He did that so his wife would not leave him. He would have been _lost without her_."

"That was due to-"

"Or the man who feigned his own murder in order to escape the real thing by the hands of his enemies. His wife lied to us, to _you_, because she would have been _lost without him_."

Holmes tried to gently tug his hand away from my grasp, but I would not let him pull away. He scowled. "Please release my hand."

Sudden anger flared up in me, anger that I had not known existed for this particular subject. Suddenly, I _needed_ him, just as he had professed his need for me. I had to show him how much we both needed it, and if I had to do it by force, I would. My tone was sharp and commanding. I used all my military training to its fullest advantage. "Holmes, come to your senses. Another thing you need to know about emotion is that it is _shared_. It is not just you feeling them. Everyone does. _I _do. So, please, would you _stop pulling away_ and hold me the way you did in the warehouse?" I gripped his hand harshly as I spoke, and as I finished, I watched Holmes balk.

"I was holding a dying man. I was holding my friend who was dying. You are not dying, so why should I hold you? You need no more comfort. You have your bed, your pillows to support you. If you wish for tea, I could call Mrs. Hudson and-"

Frustration got the best of me then. Before either of us could retreat, I yanked him towards me with all of my feeble strength. He somehow caught himself on his outstretched hands, probably a reflex from his long years in the boxing ring. Our faces were mere inches apart.

I glared at him as he stared at me with that shocked expression. "Now hold me, you great fool." When he made no move, simply leaning over me stiffly, I wrapped my arms about him. This seemed to melt the stiffness of his limbs. He sat on the edge of my bed, only half facing me as I continued to hold him. Seeing the need for further instruction, I ground out some quick orders. "Put your arms around me, Holmes. I'm still too weak from the poison to hold myself for long." I knew then that I needed him, so badly, to be close. I clutched desperately at his shirt and suspender straps, knowing I was growing weaker by the second. If I could just hold on a little longer, he might change his mind and-

The embrace was so warm, so soft. I felt as though our arms were perfectly made to link just like that. I could feel his heartbeat against my chest; feel his unsteady breath against my ear and neck. I sagged slightly, my strength spent, but he held me up, pressing me closer to him. I felt him sigh as I rested my heavy head atop his shoulder.

"I still don't understand, my dear Watson," Holmes muttered in my ear softly.

"I didn't understand you until a moment ago. I saw it in your eyes. You can lie to yourself, but your eyes cannot lie to me, Holmes. I know you too well."

"What did they say?"

"You will discover that for yourself in time." I rolled my head to the side just enough to get a glimpse of his neck. I knew my energy was spent. I should have known my limits and rested far before this point, but it just had seemed so important to get it out. I pressed a kiss to his neck, just below his jaw, the skin prickly from a day without a shave. I loved that sensation. I loved his smell. I loved his quirky attitudes and his brilliant mind.

Holmes would have to figure that out for himself, but that is a story for another time.

* * *

A/N: It is quite possible that I will get sudden inspiration to write the second half of this story, but don't count on it. Well, tell me what you think and thank you very much for reading!


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